


bastion.

by IAmNotAsleep (AFlameThatFlickersOutTooSoon)



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Cannibalism, Child Murder, Dehydration, Dissociation, Gen, Gore, Piglin Brute Technoblade, Piglin Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Read the tags please, Starvation, Technoblade Backstory (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), and children kill people, both in that children are killed, i don’t think it’s that bad but honestly idk so i’m just gonna tag it, is it obvious i don’t write a lot of action, kinda gross food stuff, no beta we die, unique societal values
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29542056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFlameThatFlickersOutTooSoon/pseuds/IAmNotAsleep
Summary: or, The Blade reminisces on the past
Kudos: 11





	bastion.

**Author's Note:**

> a few quick notes- this is supposed to be part of a larger story, but it didn’t really fit with what i have written already so i’m publishing it separately. (it’s basically just a backstory for that au’s techno.) techno will refer to himself as ‘the blade’ throughout the entire fic, as he will get the name technoblade at a later point. techno is probably somewhere between 4-7 in the beginning of the fic and he’s 10 by the end

The Blade was just a baby when the attacks began. He had a different name then, one he can no longer recall.

All he can remember of the beginning is how scared he was. 

Periods of normal, everyday life— playing with the other piglets, scuffling over gold nuggets in a clumsy imitation of their caregivers, gulping down the mushroom stews he was sometimes given as a treat— become interrupted by screams and the clash of metal and raid after raid as his home is robbed and destroyed by the strangers with their unnaturally smooth, light voices that yell battle cries he cannot understand. 

He is hidden with the other children, only one or two caretakers with them who try their best but cannot possibly comfort all of them, twenty at least but their numbers keep shrinking. 

The Brutes are killed. Every piglin who fights those monsters is killed. 

Their stomachs begin to hollow and their skin cracks and bleeds as they cannot spare hunters or gatherers, every capable adult defends the bastion. 

The Blade remembers the look on the face of one of the other piglets when they get into a fight- a real one this time, no playful head buts or sloppy pushes. The Blade knocks one of his tusks loose over the lungs of a strider and the piglet looks at him with a defeated, hopeless expression as he nurses his bloody gums and The Blade tears through the soft organ, sucking down the last drops of blood and other fluids from his fingers.

They get more and more desperate. The strangers have driven all the animals away, destroyed the environments that might have lured them back. 

They eat the hoglins. They eat the picked over remains of their fallen family.

The Blade lies in a shaking pile on the hard ground of the bastion, dizzy and feverish and shivering, and he hears a noise outside.

A cry, that of a child, though not one he recognizes.

He drags himself up on unsteady hooves to make his way through the arched columns that make up the exit to the bastion. He scans the terrain, searching, searching, _there._

A piglet, likely younger than him, stumbling along and crying pitifully. Unfamiliar and unaccompanied. 

He makes his decision.

It will not make it far. Sounders don’t give up their piglets easily, to be alone is to be a cowardly survivor or so horrible one must be cast out for the safety of the whole. Even if they were able to, his bastion would not take the child, nor would any other.

It is already as good as dead.

He does not feel guilty snapping its neck.

One of his caretakers gasps when she sees the dead piglet, her eyes brightening with excitement for the first time in so long. She cuts into the child with skilled hands, drains the blood from the arteries into bowls, cuts the rest into servings to distribute, sets the bones over a fire to cook. 

She calls the whole sounder to eat in the decrepit remains of the dining hall, warriors and piglets alike gain a new spark to them as they help prepare the meal. The Blade is congratulated on his find with a bowl of mushroom stew and a few extra bites of meat. 

They’ve been living so long on tree roots and the stringy, dry meat of the striders, already half cooked from the lava, The Blade almost forgot the taste and satisfaction of raw, juicy meat and sweet blood soaked mushrooms.

But nothing changes, not really.

The dining hall is filled with explosives as they sleep. 

Another raid comes, and The Blade refuses to hide. His caregivers beg but eventually they must retreat to protect the rest of the litter. He has strayed from the group, now there is nothing to be done for him.

He does not know what will happen. He’s always been the biggest and strongest of the litter, his caregivers say he was fathered by a brute, but he is still young and inexperienced. 

It’s not enough to make him turn back. He will not die cowering. He will not die wondering what could have happened if he had acted.

There is a golden sword in the armory, battered and scratched but dusty from disuse. It’s probably too big for him, but he takes it anyway. Grips the smooth leather handle the way he’d been taught when he snuck into the sparring practices of the older warriors. 

He heads towards the sounds of battle. The screeches of his sounder, his _family,_ and the horrible pale voices of their attackers. He slows as he approaches, stepping carefully to remain out of sight. The red vines and thick brush of the forest provide him plenty of cover. He watches as the older piglins are beaten back by the strange being on their doorstep. 

It’s the first time he’s seen them up close. They’re smaller than he expected, but quicker as well, covered in shining armor made of a material he doesn’t recognize. 

He bites into his lip, a bad habit he’s never been able to shake. His skin is so brittle and dry it splits under his teeth almost immediately and he can taste the intoxicating metallic tang of blood on his tongue. 

It invigorates him, the pain sharpens his senses and the taste of blood reminds him of the reward he will take at the end of the fight. He barrels from his hiding place among the trees. He manages to catch one of the strangers off guard, coming up behind them and stabbing his sword through the unprotected area at the small of their back. They go down with a shriek as he pushes the sword at an angle further through their abdomen, and he assumes they are dead, or will be very soon. The others begin yelling at the sight of their fallen friend, but they do not back down.

They would soon regret that decision, The Blade made sure of that. He barely knows what he’s doing but the monsters fall beneath his sword, one after the other. They grow tired quickly, unused to the heat and The Blade is only spurred onward with each crunching bone and splitting flesh. 

The ground grows slippery under his hooves, tacky blood sliding and sticking to his feet, his hands, his face.

He stands in the clearing surrounded by the corpses of his tormentors and all he can do is stare at the sword in his hand.

There’s a strange beauty to the slick red blood layered over the luster of gold. It shines and reflects the light of nearby lava pools like a jewel, deep orange and red and saffron all at once. 

He watches the slow, thick droplets as they fall from the edge of his blade until the other piglins with frightened dark eyes gently push him inside the walls of the bastion.

He floats for a bit, unaware and frustratingly present all at once. His caretakers sob when the hunters bring him back. The other piglets stare at him with a mixture of horror and fascination. His caretakers remove his dirty, battered clothes and wipe the blood and muck from his body. They even bring out a bottle of water to dampen the washcloths. There are bandages wrapped around the places the strangers managed to cut him. When one of them has to remove an arrowhead from his side, it is the first time in weeks he has cried.

Eventually, he is sitting, and one of his caretakers is brushing his hair. She explains with a soft, low rumble how they had to cut most of it off, caked with blood and grime as it was. What’s left barely reaches past his shoulders. He finally drifts into sleep, body tired and aching, with strong hands carding against his scalp.

It was a shame. He’d always held a certain amount of pride in his hair. It was thick and wavy and a very nice shade of pink, if he said so himself. The little piglets liked to play with it, doing it up in sloppy braids and ridiculously convoluted updos. It helped him connect to them- he’s never been the most social, and he suspects he’s too intimidating to be easily approachable.

It was a price he would pay a thousand times over to protect his bastion.

~

The days continue, and The Blade quickly regains his strength. He almost surprises himself with the speed at which he adapts to his new position. The other brutes praise him for his skill, the other piglets gaze at him in admiration, his caretakers gaze at him with pride.

He seems to gain a new status overnight, and he keeps waiting for the moment he fails in a critical, destructive way and it all comes crashing down.

It doesn’t. His skill in combat grows by leaps and bounds, to the point he is able to take entire teams of raiders all in his own. They would have hunters to spare, if they had need for more meat. They usually don’t— the raids make sure of that.

His family calls him a miracle, a gift from their Goddess in response to the horrors they have faced. 

A sense of relaxation floods over them. The Blade wishes he could relax as well.

It’s a small price to pay.

**Author's Note:**

> a few things about the food in this fic: it was not my original intention to add so much grisly food stuff, but because the nether has basically no water, (i am assuming that there is water underground and that’s why plants can grow there but there is no water on the surface,) the first killer if a bastion was unable to hunt would likely be dehydration. (desert carnivores often get their water from the soft tissue of their prey.) also, just as a reference between the dietary behaviors of the piglins in this fic verses real pigs: yes, pigs are omnivores, yes, pigs like meat, yes, pigs will happily eat other pigs, and yes, pigs will happily eat humans.
> 
> also! the goddess i mentioned is the blood god, idk if she’ll play that big a role but i wanted to establish religion as a part of techno’s life from early on. adrestia is a greek war goddess of revolt and divine retribution who may or may not just be an epithet of nemesis, and her name roughly translates to ‘she who cannot be escaped.’ for this au i’m definitely bumping up the war goddess attribute but i thought she was cool and i was too lazy to come up with a completely new god on the fly.


End file.
